Wilbur is feeling something about this. Not sure what, though. "What was he like?"

"He's—" Tiny laugh, as he buries himself further in Wilbur. "He's the most obnoxious person I've ever had the pleasure of knowing, and I say it like that on purpose. He's pretentious and a bitch and I used to stay on call with him until three in the morning and, like, that was because we were both avoiding our lives, but it was also because neither of us could stop laughing. He will claim with a fucking straight face to have manic pixie dream girl privilege and to this day I don't know if that was a bit or not. He's sort of constantly in his own skull, he's— very private, in a lot of ways, he taught me how to be on camera in a way that wouldn't kill me and everything he does with that is very deliberate? Half the time he talks I get the impression it's rehearsed, it's like—" 

He doesn't want to start crying. He really, really doesn't want to start crying. 

"I don't know. He's the only person I can talk about most of my shit with. I— miss him a lot." 

"If he's anything like me, it wasn't a bit. Or--not just a bit." He's not petting Q's hair anymore; he's very, very still. The feeling has resolved itself into jealousy and is swift approaching resentment.

"Mm." He's clearly noticed Wilbur going still but if he's got much of a reaction to it, it isn't showing. "I mean, yeah, it's not just a bit. But like, there's a range, and it's not usually clear where things fall in it, and I don't ask." 

"Mm." He goes back to petting Q's hair. "You can talk about your shit with me, if you want."

No he can't. 

...can he? It's been a month. Five weeks isn't that much time but it's enough that whatever it is that happened, it might not happen again. He might not be going back. It's not impossible that he could—

Something about the way Wilbur says it sounds remarkably like do you trust me. 

"There's, um— it's, it's kind of a lot." This is the understatement of several decades but. 

"You can tell me."

"I—"

And then every single reason he absolutely cannot fucking do that comes crashing around him all at once, every implicit threat and every order that didn't need to be given and every disappearance and mining accident and heart attack that hit at twenty-five and the smell of blood-laced roses— and Haymitch Abernathy's family and Dream and George closing ranks around Sapnap and hollow-eyed Johanna Mason— and Tubbo, solemn in lamb's wool with a red ribbon around his neck like a slit throat, not dressed the way Quackity always was but always with the possibility that he could be— 

"—can't, I can't, I'm sorry I can't I—" and he's crying, he can't fucking breathe, he's shaking so hard that if he were holding something he would definitely have dropped it. 

Wilbur isn't going to move unless Q moves first. "Hey, hey, Q, breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Can you do that for me? In--" Exaggerated breath in, for demonstration. "--Out."

He— he can try to breathe. It's not really going very well but it at least means he's stopped tripping over himself trying to apologize. After a minute or so whatever's holding him frozen gives up its job and he slumps forward into Wilbur. 

Tight hug. Wilbur goes back to petting Q's hair with one hand. "In, out. It's okay, you're okay."

The hug actually does help; breathing is going slowly and kind of shakily but it is going. 

"Fuck," he says, finally, into Wilbur's shoulder. "'M sorry. Didn't think it was going to be that— big." 

Think, Wilbur, what would Phil do?

...He checks his inventory. He's pretty sure he put all the food away last night, but-- score, he has two apples from cutting down trees. He pulls them up, extricates himself from the hug only enough to hand one to Q.

"Breakfast. You'll feel better." He takes a bite of his own apple, to demonstrate.

It's very strange being reminded by Wilbur to eat. He does in fact feel better, though. 

"Thank you. I— ugh. I did mean it, sorry for making you deal with that, my panic attacks aren't usually— like that one." 

"It's alright." Pet pet.

Being petted is nice. 

Okay. He is not talking about his shit today, apparently, that went shockingly well— he ignores the part of his brain that sounds like Schlatt telling him that nothing even happened and he needs to stop fucking whining, leans into Wilbur's hands and makes a soft contented sound at the petting— but he'd really rather not have a repeat performance. Aimless cuddling it is, then, until Wilbur picks the conversation back up.

As soon as the imminent need to help Q is over, Wilbur starts replaying that whole thing in his mind.

You ruined it you fucking idiot you ruined it you hurt him you always fucking do this he should fucking hate you he had a fucking panic attack because of you he's scared of you just like all the rest he doesn't trust you you don't deserve to be trusted you fucked it up you ALWAYS FUCKING DO THIS--

"--I should go see Phil. Since I didn't, uh, come back last night."

"—you don't have to leave. You know that, right?" 

"......'Course. Yeah. I mean--yeah, of course." He doesn't sound very convincing. "I should just--let him know. You know how Phil is."

He does know how Phil is, at least in very broad strokes. Specifically the thing he knows about Phil is that, one, Phil is the most chill person in the known universe, and two, he wants Wilbur to spend more time out of the house. 

"...sure," he says, instead of that. "But if I get a request, I would like it if you stayed." 

FUCKING IDIOT PIECE OF SHIT CAN'T EVEN DO THIS RIGHT IT WAS BETTER WHEN YOU WERE IN LIMBO AND COULDN'T HURT EVERYONE--

"...Right. Okay. Of course." He settles back in to hugging Q.

Q settles back in to being hugged. 

...This might be a bad idea. This is almost definitely a bad idea. "I— get panic attacks a lot," he says. "I don't know if you've noticed, most people don't? They're not usually obvious if you don't already know what you're looking at, I think." 

Okay. Something to concentrate on that isn't his thoughts. He can-- he can do this. He can't quite feel his fingers, as though he's watching himself and Q over his own shoulder; he digs his fingers into Q's shoulder, a reminder that he's still alive, that he's with someone else and not alone.

"I didn't--I didn't notice, no."

"Yeah. Usually they're not— loud, the way that one was? I get fucking, spacey and weird, but I don't usually freeze up. It's like part of me goes 'oh okay, this might as well happen, call me when it's over,' and leaves the rest of me on autopilot while it's gone. I'll be back in twenty minutes or when I remember where I am or when I realize nothing's happening, but in the meantime I'm basically just not in there." 

"Oh, yeah, okay, that-- that makes sense. I think that's fairly normal? I mean, not as often, probably, but sometimes."